The Roles We Play, the Masks We Wear
by Dreaming of Blue
Summary: Lost in thought, a brief look into the inner workings behind the facade the character presents to the world.
1. Chapter 1 Zuko

Disclaimer: Avatar: Last Airbender…not mine…ownership lies elsewhere…

Leaning against the hard metal railing of the cold iron ship, the boy sighed wearily. With his mind thousands of miles away, he felt neither the cool morning breeze nor heard the steady ocean's roar, those powerful waves breaking upon the ship's hull below him. In body, mind, and soul, he was tired, so very tired. As he stood there upon the deck of the small ship, he could feel himself drowning for just a moment under the weight of his heavy thoughts. His eyes never leaving the distant ocean, he allowed his mind to wander as he contemplated his past and his future.

For three years, he had scoured the world, searching for an elusive, ancient relic not seen in a hundred years. For those three long and difficult years, he had poured all of his energy and motivation into his mission, always remaining strong, fierce, and determined. During those troubled times, he had rarely let himself sink into despair or lose focus, yet now as he continued to stare out into the blue frigid waters, he could feel it, the hopelessness creeping toward him threatening to overwhelm him. Like a burden that could be lifted, those months of fruitless searching slowly pressed down on him dragging him deeper into the dark depths.

With his honor lost and his self banished, his place in the world felt uncertain. Once a noble of the highest standing, he was now known as the one who was cast out, the embarrassment of the ruling house, and a failure. Quietly and unknowingly, he voiced that last word into the early morning air. That one word was a catalyst; like the breaking of a dam, his unspoken fears, suppressed shame, and silent doubts gushed forth, flooding his senses and calling to memories best left forgotten.

For a brief instant, he was there again in that room. He felt the cool marble beneath his hands, heard his young voice pleading, and sensed the shadowed figure approaching. Then there were the stares of the hushed crowd, so many eyes upon him, but he barely noticed them as his visions clouded over with tears. His head tilted up; his eyes rose to rest on the one whom his life centers upon. There were a flash of fire and an instant of dawning horror. Then there was nothing but pain.

The boy's body shuddered as he escaped the memory, returning to the present. With renewed conviction, he desperately shoved this fragment of recollection and all of its accompanying uncertainties far back into the darkness of his mind. Destiny and honor, these two words were his lifeline. He clung to them like an exhausted man clutching a rope amid a raging sea, but fate was not kind. The once blessed heir was now a dragon of torn wings battling helplessly against the punishing wind of a devastating, merciless storm.

He did not know what startled him. Was it the subtle rustle of clothing in the wind or the distant clamor of an awakening crew? Something disturbed the boy from his musings. He became aware of a familiar presence behind him. The comforting scent of tea drifted toward him, carried by the ocean breeze. Still, he did not turn to face the man behind him. Even from where he was standing, he could feel the quiet concern and sorrow radiating from that man, he who had followed the boy from the very heart of their beloved homeland and selflessly eased the pain caused by the banishment.

The boy knew this. He appreciated the man's actions and silent strength and was comforted by them, yet he hated himself for dragging this man down with him. The boy did not wish the man to know that his efforts were failing. Slowly yet surely, the boy was losing hope, eaten by his continued disappointment in himself and in his mission. Though he struggled ferociously against this outcome, he knew that he was losing his desire to rise each day, battle the darkness, and live. So, long ago when the first signs of this appeared, he resolved to never show the man that side of himself. He would don on a scowling mask and hide under a persona of anger. His guise was one of frustration and impatience. His role was that of a proud, driven young man, never faltering in his quest and never resting in his hunt. As much as he wanted to surrender, he never would. For that man, he continued to live as if he has hope, small though it was. He knew that all his anger and rage saddened the man, yet this was all he could summon from his soul and offer as proof that he was still living and still breathing.

The boy took a deep, calming breath inhaling and exhaling. He pushed away from the railing, straightened his shoulders like the royalty he was, assumed his usual frown, and turned to face the man. He looked at the man as the man stood watching in the doorway. The boy then acknowledged that he was not the only one that played parts for the sake of others. For just a second, he saw an uncharacteristic, solemn expression resting on the older man's face which the man quickly replaced with a cheerful grin and a jolly air. Raising a pot, the man spoke, "Nephew, have some tea."


	2. Chapter 2 Sokka

Disclaimer: Avatar: the Last Airbender…not mine…ownership lies elsewhere…

Far away from the icy plains of his homeland, a boy sat silently in the darkness, gazing tenderly at the full moon. In turn, the glowing moon with its unearthly light shone upon the boy, gently lifting the night's darkness to reveal his solemn expression and mournful eyes. Faintly, the boy felt the present world steadily slipping away from him as he continued to stare up into the softly illuminated sky. The cool, quiet breezes, constantly ruffling his hair and rippling the grass, blew on unnoticed. The melodious chirps of the awakening insects and the lonely cries of an unseen animal echoed in the shadows unheard. The scent of the slowly drying earth wafted toward him from the moist, damp ground inhaled yet unrecognized. The moon had become his anchor, his only connection to the corporal plane. For him, the physical universe had disappeared, eclipsed by the twisting of his thoughts and the strength of his rising emotions. Like a violent storm approaching from the sea, the conflicts of his inner reflections and painful recollections were not to be avoided or ignored.

Normally, the boy was not one to brood in solitude, for though he was a child from the winter lands of perpetual snow, chilling waters, and freezing winds, he was blessed to know the warmth of a loving family, a close-knit community, and a group of fiercely loyal friends. No, he was not usually one to turn away from the companionship of others, but once a month, when the silver moon reached its full glory, he found himself retreating from the presence of his comrades to seek comfort in isolation. The boy was not an artful wielder of the blue element, yet his connection with the moon was as strong and true as any manipulator of the flowing water. For him, the very presence of that luminous orb was enough to spark the raging of a silent battle within his heart. Heavy sorrow clashed with fond remembrance; utter despair warred with steadfast resolve.

Summoned by the moon, a wave of memories arose from the dark shadows, carrying the boy deeper into the past. In his mind's eye, the moon's image wavered and dimmed before completely disappearing. The translucent image of an ethereal maiden replaced that of the heavenly moon. Glimpses of a place far away and a time long ago flared and faded in a manner as softly and swiftly as those of the twinkling, midnight stars: a magnificent palace of solid ice, the enchanting sight of exquisite sapphire eyes framed by a dark face and hair as pale as moonbeams, black soot falling from the sky, a flash of fire stealing away the silvery light, the awe-inspiring manifestation of a wrathful spirit, the noble sacrifice of one brave girl, and a heartbreaking farewell sealed with a bittersweet kiss. The boy, compelled by these reluctantly treasured visions, whispered the earthly name of the otherworldly lunar spirit like the private utterance of a sacred prayer, and above him a stray cloud glided, carried by the higher winds, to partially hide the moon's glimmering face.

With this darkening of the night sky, his inner reflections began to follow a different pattern, a new direction. His thoughts turned away from the story of forbidden love won and lost and from the makings of the epic romance that never was. Instead, his mind circled around a common theme highlighted by these closely held memories, his own secret fear. Deep within himself, he feared the persistent notion that he was inadequate as a protector, pathetic as a warrior, hopeless as a leader, and worthless as his friends' strength. This idea of his perceived uselessness taunted him. It lurked in his mind, always criticizing his actions and forever tearing at his confidence. Numerous times, he pushed it away in fear of its mocking voice, yet it remained in the background.

He was a barely trained fighter surrounded by an earth genius, a water master, and the all-powerful bridge between the worlds. While he tripped into battle with crafted weapons in hand, his friends molded the very world around them with their graceful, combative movements. At times, he felt inferior among them. Truthfully, it was not their wondrous abilities to shape the elements that he envied, for his father, one of the men that he respected the most, was a great man, courageous leader, and ferocious warrior even without these spiritual gifts. It was his friends' obvious mastery of their chosen fields that he coveted. They fulfilled their duties admirably. Their superior skills and control over their abilities allowed them to resolve conflicts, triumph in battle, and restore peace. In contrast, he had failed in many aspects; he had been powerless too many times. The guilt of several specific incidents weighed heavily upon him, focusing on his failure to protect during the enemy raid that had stolen his beloved mother, the arrival of the iron ship led by an arrogant armored prince, and the disappearance of an adored princess from the very center of the well-defended ice-carved capital.

Each event chipped at his self-confidence and his resolve, but every time before he faltered, he would remind himself that he was not a coward. Though he was young, he had been the defender of his village and a warrior of his tribe, and now, he was a key player in the century-long war, a friend and ally of the one that would bring peace. There was not any room for troublesome doubts, not now and not at this stage. So, at the beginning of their journey, he had quickly determined his place in the group of would-be saviors. The boy knew himself. He had no illusions and harbored no delusions of grandeur. He was neither the story's protagonist, the one called the world's last hope, nor was he one of the protagonist's powerful guardians, the master teachers. Instead, he was that guy, the boy identified with boomerang, meat, and sarcasm. He played many parts and had many roles. At times, he was logic, the slightly pessimistic voice of reason in a crazy world of weird "bendy" magic. In others, he was the group's funny man, a reason to laugh even during the dire situations of their perilous adventure. Sometimes, he was the master strategist developing mind-boggling plans of action; occasionally, he was the annoying yet sweet overprotective big brother warding off potential suitors and stalkers from his precious baby sister.

The facets of his character were numerous and diverse. He was one of keen intellect, one who prided himself as a man of science, yet most of the time, he played the fool. He was the joke, the comic relief, and he did this purposely. He disliked the comparison of this assumed persona to a mask. A mask was for hiding; it was a tool of deception and for concealment. Instead, he thought of war paint. For him, that thin coat of dull color smeared upon the face represented many things. It was an important ritual, a preparation for war, and an intimidation tactic against his enemies. It strengthened his fighting spirit, boosted his courage, and protected his spirit in battle. He wore the warrior paint proudly on his face, and in the same way, he played his chosen part, magnificently and with pride. With humor as his selected weapon, he lifted the disheartened spirits of his companions and encouraged their heavy hearts, lightening the moments and providing an escape through laughter. This was not to say that he was a devious, genius mastermind. He did not entirely cover his personality or his thoughts. In many ways, he truly was an awkward, clumsy boy. Unlike an inflexible mask of clay or wood, a painted disguise was based on the face beneath it. He did not create a new identity; he just emphasized certain aspects of himself. This was how he supported and protected his strange new family.

The coming of the rosy dawn roused the boy from his inner reflections, breaking the spell that the moonlight had weaved over his thoughts. The moon had set and the sun had risen. The past was still there, but it had faded, making way for the present and for the new day. Steadily, the world came back into focus. He felt the chill of the morning breeze, saw the forest life around him awaking from their slumber, and eventually heard the careless footsteps and cheerful voices of his approaching friends. The boy smiled to himself. He had smelt the enticing scent of breakfast on the wind. The thoughtfulness and concern of his little sister was evident in that gesture. Slowly, he rose from his perch on the ground, stifling a yawn and stretching his stiff body. His fears swept away and his war paint in place, he was ready to face his friends. With a goofy smile on his face, he turned toward the group, opened his mouth in greeting, and promptly tripped over an unnatural pillar of stone newly called from the solid ground, and as he lay there with face planted in the soil, ignoring the concerned exclamations of his sister and his friend, he focused on the giggling voice of one mischievous little girl and let out both a whine and a wail, "TOPH, NOT FUNNY!"

Author's note: This chapter noticeably followed the same format as the previous one. It was slightly more difficult to produce than the first, so it may have been rough to some extent. The characterization was also more challenging and perhaps this analysis was somewhat inaccurate. Anyway, thanks for reading. Feedback while not required is always encouraging. Merry Christmas!


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